


Five Times Bruce Wayne Met the Black Widow

by CaraMia



Series: The Billion-Heirs' Club [7]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, world's okayest detective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaraMia/pseuds/CaraMia
Summary: alt title: Five Times Bruce Wayne Met the Black Widow and Had Absolutely No Idea, Leading to Her Concern Over His Mental Wellbeing and, Eventually, Tony Finding Out and Nearly Passing Out from Laughter
(and one time he finally figured it out.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> oh god i need a calendar to keep track of this shit -- playin' fast and loose with timelines because I CAN
> 
> let me know what you think?

The first time Bruce Wayne encountered an assassin and had no idea, he was nineteen and a bit of an idiot.

When Bruce was still going to Princeton, pretending to be a normal young man interested in normal things like college and degrees, he would go out. He was not officially old enough to drink but he had a driver's license for one Wayne Thomason who definitely _was_. (Bruce was not very inventive with fake names.) 

He made sure never to be a regular anywhere - even in New Jersey, years after any newspaper or news website had published any pictures of him, there were still people who would recognize him. Thankfully, he'd gotten quite good at spotting the look (the "Oh god I just found a billionaire" look) and was usually able to get away before anyone cornered him for an autograph or to express their condolences. 

This night, he was in a club that actually had no name - a pointedly empty sign hung outside and everyone working inside had a look of intense haughtiness. Bruce predicted, accurately, as it turned out, that the club would not last long. 

For all the highbrow fakeness, Bruce liked clubs. It wasn't even the alcohol, not entirely. Low lighting, the deep pulse of music, the press of strangers who only looked at him briefly - Bruce was learning to love the anonymity. He could watch people and only interact with them if he thought they might be interesting. Plus, Alfred had strictly forbidden partying. Bruce was learning how to be a normal rebellious teenager. He thought Alfred would appreciate it, in the years to come (Alfred most certainly did not). 

He had been there an hour before someone he would call "interesting" walked in. "Interesting" was probably not a strong enough word for her - "Intriguing" might be better (though Bruce tried not to use the word "intriguing" to describe women. It made him feel like a creepy old man). A woman in a tight purple dress moved easily through the crowd. It took Bruce watching her from the door to the bar for him to realize that people were moving out of her way as she approached. He couldn't tell what color her hair was under the club lights but he thought it might be red. Her hair was half swept up, the rest of it falling down her back in careless waves. She wore several gold necklaces and had dangling gold earrings. The dress she was wearing was very tight. 

Bruce Wayne, 19, complete idiot, downed his drink quickly. The rest of the bar was full except for the spot right next to him. He caught one of the bartenders' eye and quickly raised two fingers, a motion the woman now leaning against the bar next to him did not miss. She smiled and Bruce gulped. Up close, she was _intimidating_ \- more than beautiful - she was ethereal in the low light. She leaned close so he could hear her over the club's music. 

"Thank you, _myshka_. I hope you are not offended - I am here with another," she gestured to the rest of the club, as if she indicated one particular person. "But again, thank you for the... hospitality." 

Something about her eastern European accent made Bruce's knees go weak. He gulped again. Two drinks in and 19 years old was not Bruce at his most charming. 

He managed a smile when he handed over the drink. She took a small sip - Bruce had a moment of blinding panic that she would hate it and therefore him before she smiled brightly. 

She met his eyes and leaned forward again. Bruce's heart leapt quite spectacularly into his throat but she only kissed him on the cheek. 

Heart thudding in his chest, Bruce watched her move away from him and through the crowd to the depths of the dance floor. He lost sight of her very quickly which, he supposed, had probably been the point. Feeling like the night was definitely a wash now, he paid for his drinks and muscled his way outside. He found himself envying her easy grace as he had to elbow three people in the eye and step on twelve feet before he could make it out the door. 

The next morning, Bruce noticed the news announcing that the nameless club had burned to the ground around an hour after he left. It looked like an unfortunate accident. He had a moment of regret that he couldn't go back there to find the redhead again before he had to rush to avoid missing the last ten minutes of class. 

(Bruce made a pointed effort the whole year and a half he was at Princeton to only show up to the last ten minutes of every class and _still_ get the highest grades. Tony would be so proud, if Bruce ever got around to calling him.) 

\-- 

The second time Bruce Wayne had an unintentionally close encounter with an assassin, he a couple years older (and slightly less idiotic) and heading home for Joe Chill's trial. 

He was one of three passengers in the first-class cabin. He'd fought with Alfred over being in first class. He had wanted to just fly economy. (Bruce was going through a strange guilt phase with his money. He kept trying not to buy things that might be considered extravagant. Alfred had pointed out that the trial meant more and more news outlets were posting pictures of him again, so the likelihood of his being recognized had increased exponentially. Bruce had bought a regular ticket anyway, in protest. When he arrived, the airline attendant had politely informed him that his ticket had been upgraded. He took his seat in first class, deciding not to make the airline attendant's day any worse, but also deciding to lecture Alfred when he got home.) 

It was much easier to think about plane seats than about the trial he was on his way to witness. 

The other two people in first class were clearly a newly married couple; the woman was wearing a plastic tiara with "BRIDE" on it in tiny plastic jewels. She was also giggling, something Bruce normally didn't mind. Combined with the vapid look of the pair, what was waiting at his destination, and his general dislike of people lately, Bruce found himself glaring at the Skymall magazine during the pre-flight checks and taxiing and even take off. 

The flight attendant dropped off a complimentary mimosa, rolling her eyes at the couple when Bruce looked up at her. 

"Let me know if you need anythin' stronger, sugar." She sounded like she'd lived her whole life in the deep south, hunting squirrels with older siblings and going to church every Sunday. 

It wasn't quite the same level of soothing as Alfred's British accent but it was close enough. Bruce took the mimosa gratefully. 

After thirty nonstop minutes of making out from the couple, he flagged down the flight attendant. 

"Can you make a dark and stormy? Heavy on the dark, light on the stormy." 

She winked. 

"Comin' right up, hon." 

He made it through the flight with the help of two more dark 'n' stormys with a side of flirting with the flight attendant. The closer to Gotham they got, the closer his mood matched his drink. She was very understanding, not asking what was wrong, merely stopping to chat and distract him every few minutes. 

As they were about to begin the descent, she leaned on the chair in front of him with a sigh. 

"Well, hon, at least you're almost out of this mess," she stared at the newlyweds pointedly. They were oblivious to anything outside of themselves, as they had been the entire flight. They'd barely managed any thank yous for all the drinks they'd had. "I've got them for their next flight too, so pray for me; I'm gonna need all the Jesus I can get to get through this." 

"Well, if you're ever in Gotham and need a free drink, feel free to give me a call." 

She smiled warmly at him. 

"That's awful sweet of you. I do like a dark 'n' stormy on occasion. Now, hand me that glass and put your tray table up." 

He departed the plane twenty minutes later, sharing a warm smile with the flight attendant. 

(When the couple is found dead on the plane at their destination, the police try to get in contact with Bruce as the only other first class passenger on the couple's previous flight. He's already disappeared and the case goes very cold. Several years later, a government agency comes and collects all the files, promising to follow up.) 

\-- 

The third time Bruce Wayne ran into an assassin it was after the first time he stole so he wouldn't starve. 

He was huddled in an alley, tucked out of sight as he devoured the fruit he'd lifted - the first food he'd had in three days. People passed by the alley, not bothering to linger. Bruce couldn't blame them - it stank. _He_ stank. He was learning a lot about how smelly people could get. 

He wasn't entirely sure what country he was in anymore. He gravitated to big cities, finding them both a balm to homesickness and a sharp reminder of how far from home he was now. In many ways, being out in the countryside was easier. He wasn't likely to see any familiar-looking, nightmare inducing alleys. But even with the potential for more mental trauma, cities were better. More places to hide, fewer people who cared if you were a stranger, easier access to food. 

The fruit was gone much too quickly. 

A young couple strolled down the alley, arm in arm. The man was laughing, his head thrown back and his throat exposed in the warm afternoon light. The woman started to move - lifting her hand as if maybe she was going to catch the man's chin and steal a kiss, but stopped abruptly when she spotted Bruce. He curled into a tighter ball, looking away and hoping they'd move on. He wasn't quite ready to start begging yet. 

"Darling, I think this alley may be occupied." Her accent was British, something he hadn't been expecting here. It made him ache, suddenly, with the desire to go home and hear Alfred again. 

The man finally noticed Bruce. He snorted and said something about "abominable laziness"; Bruce tuned him out, focusing on the ground, wishing them away. 

They did leave, though not before the woman knelt and placed a small handful of bills on the ground in his line of sight. 

"I'm sorry I don't have any more," she murmured, before standing and rejoining the man. 

"You're a soft touch, my dear," Bruce heard, as they walked away. Faintly, he heard her response. 

"The world needs a little softness here and there, darling. Besides, he looked awfully like someone I used to know." 

(The man died rather suddenly in the next empty alley they came across. By the time she'd taken care of the corpse and came back to find Bruce, he'd moved on. She briefly considered tracking him down or telling her employers that Bruce Wayne was apparently living in poverty in the Middle East. She kept it to herself and left him be. She'd rather not have to kill him, if she could help it.) 

\-- 

The fourth time Bruce Wayne saw the Black Widow he finally heard her codename. He still didn't recognize her. It probably had to do with his concussion, broken ribs, and the ketamine he'd been injected with two minutes ago. 

Budapest would be getting a _very_ negative Yelp review from him. 

"Whatever you say, dude," said an unfamiliar male voice from somewhere in the darkness surrounding him. "Widow are you sure we can't just leave him in a convenient ditch somewhere?" 

"Shut up, Hawkeye, and help me carry him." 

Bruce woke up a day later with a massive headache, a lot of bandages around his ribcage, and no idea how he'd gotten out of captivity in a collapsing building. 

"Fuck Europe," he mumbled and spent the next week figuring out how to get to India. 

\-- 

The fifth time Bruce Wayne met the Black Widow he was back in Gotham and sleazing his way through a party. The event was very black tie; he thought he recognized at least three distinct government agencies floating around. He was technically party-crashing but since he was extremely rich, no one seemed to mind. 

He needed to be seen here tonight. Reinserting himself into society was taxing but necessary. He'd worked out a timeline of his "travels" with Alfred. They'd spent a lot of time and money on making sure there was a semi-plausible paper trail for the truly inquisitive to follow. If anyone noticed discrepancies, hopefully they'd just think he was in rehab somewhere and trying to cover it up. 

Rehab was practically a right of passage for the rich and bored - poverty, a nomadic lifestyle, and jail time (not to mention the ninja training) were not. 

He'd carefully shaken off the few annoyingly curious and suspiciously curious and made his way to the bar. He didn't bother looking at the menu. He opted instead for the rich douchebag way of ordering (which is to be extremely vague about what you want and then be offended if they ask for clarification. Alfred had made him practice). 

"Something as exquisite as you. If such a thing exists," he said, and winked. Mentally he threw up a little in his mouth. 

"You're in luck," said the bartender, a beautiful redhead who was obviously used to rich douchebags. Her polite customer-service face didn't even twitch. "I've got just the thing." 

She set the drink down on the counter. It was a dark and stormy, Bruce's favorite. He hadn't had it in a long time. He couldn't help looking at her again, wondering why that was the drink he picked. She smiled, giving nothing away. Bruce wondered if he'd ever met her before. She seemed like the kind of person he'd remember. 

"That'll be ten dollars." 

Then again, since coming back he kept seeing half-familiar faces everywhere. Spending so long among strangers had messed with his facial recognition; so many people had similar mannerisms and cadences of speech that he felt like he was in a constant haze of deja vu. 

He slid a ten across the counter and stuffed a twenty into the tip jar. He was pretty sure the drinks were complimentary but he was also working on his cavalier attitude towards money (he'd spent 30 minutes on the phone having Tony talk him through it - after Tony'd spent five minutes laughing at him for having to ask). Social niceties had not been in high demand the years he'd been gone. 

The bartender slipped the ten dollars into her bra as soon as he left, so he figured he'd been right about the drink prices. 

He flirted his way through all the women and half the men, had two more drinks, and only texted Tony in desperation once before finally deciding around midnight that he'd done quite enough schmoozing. He made sure to run by and tip the bartender again. She'd been a bastion against the forces of darkness (AKA the upper crust). She was drinking her own dark and stormy and winked as Bruce dropped another bill in the tip jar. 

He left, feeling extremely happy not to be there any longer. 

(Three double agents disappeared that night. Their bodies were never found. Later, Black Widow was heard complaining over the comms. 

"Look, I know I'm good at what I do but this is getting ridiculous. It's not even fun anymore. I'm genuinely starting to worry about this guy's intelligence.") 

\-- 

He finally figured it out in the Tower, the day after the spectacle that was the Wayne-Queen-Stark fundraiser. Natasha decided she wanted to unwind by making everyone cocktails at 7am. 

Everyone (except Thor, who was squirreled away somewhere with Jane) was woken up by the Black Widow looming over them. Tony was positive she did this sort of thing to mess with people's minds. He was not entirely wrong. 

She made a Manhattan for Tony (still awake, dragged from the workshop), a Shirley Temple for Steve (and winked at him as she handed it over), a pity Irish Coffee for Clint (who took it with an "aww coffeeeeeee" and fell back asleep slumped over the bar), and two Dark and Stormys. She took one for herself and passed the other to Bruce. 

Amused despite the early and creepy wake-up call, Bruce raised the glass in a toast to her and took a sip. 

  


(Tony had introduced them shortly before the fundraiser started. She'd had a delighted spark in her eyes when Tony had said his name. 

"Mr. Wayne - what a pleasure to see you here. Natasha Romanoff." 

They shook hands. Bruce ignored the panic on Tony's face with the ease of practice. 

"A pleasure, Ms. Romanoff." 

"Oh, Natasha, please," she said, a wicked smile on her lips, "I already feel like I've known you for years.") 

  


"This is my favorite drink," Bruce said now, taking another sip. "Though I usually prefer to have it later in the day." 

"Is it your favorite? Interesting," Natasha took a sip of her own, keeping eye contact with Bruce the whole time. He was starting to understand why Tony found her intimidating. "Someone bought it for me in a club once and I've liked it ever since. I had it recently on a trip so it was on my mind." 

Steve and Tony stared at her, apparently surprised at her offering a personal anecdote. Steve looked like he was trying to decide if it was a lie or not. 

Bruce was also staring. Something that had been bouncing around his head for years came together and he groaned when all the dots finally connected. Natasha grinned as he sat next to Clint and put his head on the bar, hiding under an arm. 

"Tony's never going to let this go," Bruce mumbled. Natasha patted his arm in sympathy. 

"There, there. I am _very_ good at my job." 

"What," said Steve, "just happened?" 

  


(Tony didn't let it go for months. He got Bruce a "World's Okayest Detective" mug and insisted he use it. Bruce would have, except Natasha stole it and used it rather smugly whenever Bruce was in town. 

"Hah! S _mug_ ly! Get it, Bruce? ... Bruce? Where'd he go?") 

**Author's Note:**

> WHO SAYS BRUCE CAN'T HAVE BEEN IN BUDAPEST? WHO? No one knows when it happened. I can do what I want. Fight me. (Don't fight me; I'm weak.)
> 
> (If you wanna know why Clint doesn't recognize Bruce in Billionheirs Have Sleepovers, Too - I invite you to read the comic books. Clint is a disaster. And this is what happens when you don’t actually plan anything and just let the plot bunnies come to you.)


End file.
